Miss Me Yet?
by AngelicDemon0973
Summary: Sherlock's surprise past with his sister finally comes to a conclusion, but what if it still isn't over? No Rosamund
1. Chapter 1:Miss Me Yet?

**So, I don't like it when people write a bunch before their stories, but I just need to say a quick thing. This is my first Sherlock fic and the first time I've written in years. After watching season 4 last night, I thought I wanted to go for it again, so please go easy on me! Anyways, this maybe might have some JohnLock in it, so if you don't like that, this might not be for you. Oh! And JOHN DIDN'T HAVE A KID. He has zero kids in this story... Now go have fun ripping me a new one after you read this!**

* * *

 _Gunshots ripped through the air, scattering the soldiers and forcing them to take cover behind anything they could. Falling, one by one, the thick aroma of blood began wafting through the open space and filling John's nostrils. He looked around frantically, looking for the comfort of any lively eyes searching him out, a familiar face not drained of all life. How could this happen? Everyone of them, dead. The ground was stained red and the sound of guns firing seemed endless._

 _Just more than a minute was all it took for the people he was in charge of, the men he laughed with, formed bonds with, and the men he called friends to die. The enemy soon cleared the area, but John still couldn't move. These men, his make-shift family scattered around him. Lifeless bodies in pools of blood that once held the souls of his closest friends. But now, they were just empty piles of flesh and bone. John sat there, staring at his fellow soldiers dead eyes, willing them to look up at him. But they didn't. They were dead. Just once more, one more time John wanted to hear their voices saying,..._

"Wake up John! I've solved it!"

John woke with a start, sitting straight up out of bed, covered with sweat. The only sound to accompany him was the slamming of the door as Sherlock pranced out of his room, telling him to get dressed. He hadn't had that dream for awhile, or nightmare he should say. That was a time he longed to forget, to redo, so why was his subconscious bringing these memories back to him? Bringing the heel of his hands to his eyes, he tried to rub out his tiredness from the restless night, knowing there was a criminal to be put to justice.

While not ignoring, but pushing aside that morning's events, John began to slowly swing his legs over the side of the bed, pushing himself up to get ready for the days outlandish antics. The second he put an ounce of weight on his leg however, he immediately bent down to grab at his pajama pant leg. A quick sharp but numb pain shot up his leg, causing John to take just an extra moment before shaking his head and taking his first step to his closet. It wasn't often, but he did rarely get a small reminder of the days of walking with a cane, usually when his mind wandered into taboo subjects such as his nightmare that very morning.

Now working past his tiredness and familiar emotions that he once thought he'd moved past, he continued getting himself dressed. He has long since figured out that when he went out with his partner in crime, he wasn't ever the focus of anyone's attention, so he never really dressed to impress as he used to. Instead, John groggily finished dressing himself and knew just what to do to try and snap him out of his depressed stupor. His almost ritual morning cuppa.

Making his way through his bedroom, John quickly noticed something upon opening his door that was slammed just minutes ago by the very reason he was awake. It was quiet. One glance of the flat and John had no doubts that he was alone.

"What was the point in waking me if he was just going to leave without me anyways?" John snapped to no one in particular. Realising how odd it is to grumble to yourself in an empty room about your sociopathic flatmate, John just sighed and as usual, let reasoning take over and put his emotions at bay. After putting the kettle on, John found himself with nothing to do. Leaning his hands on the counter, he ducked his head and closed his eyes, allowing previously restricted thoughts to run through his head as he had finally a moment to dwell on them.

Ever since the whole Eurus debacle two months ago, a lot has changed. John had finally had time to healthily reflect on Mary. She was dead. That time, fighting against Sherlock and blaming him for something Mary chose to do, it was one that he regretted to his core. Sherlock, despite his exterior and most people's assumptions on his demeanor, was a good man. He promised to protect them, himself and Mary, but that was an unfair thing of him to say. Sherlock was in no way responsible of their well being, and had no right to just assume the protector role. No one can promise that nothing bad will happen to you, the future in unpredictable. Sherlock should have never put that weight of responsibility on himself.

Of course, Sherlock isn't like anyone he has ever met, and he most certainly doesn't function or feel as a 'normal' person would. Sherlock was only meaning the best by what he said, John knew that. But that didn't mean that it didn't sting when Sherlock failed to live up to his promise. The second he saw Mary drop, and saw her eyes close for the last time, his mind kept repeating that promise that was made. Sherlock promised. Sherlock, the man who can solve any case, know what you got for your 16th birthday by your shoes, the man who outsmarted Mori-bloody-arty couldn't even save his wife from a bullet. He promised. Johns brain was so overwhelmed with hurt, sorrow, frustration, anger, and crushing helplessness, he needed an outlet. Sherlock just happened to be there.

Looking back, it was a terrible thing to do to your best friend who was also grieving, despite not even understanding what he felt. He felt awful about it, but he never had the chance to apologize, After Sherlock almost died from an overdose, and then by that serial killer, it was one after another as after that it was Eurus. Finally, John thought he could apologize, but here comes another thing that changed. He hardly ever saw Sherlock anymore. After Eurus was taken care of, Sherlock took case after case, hardly eating or sleeping, let alone leaving any time for John to talk with him. Yes, it was never rare for Sherlock to keep the cases flowing, but never like this. There was hardly a minute between cases, John wasn't even sure if Sherlock had slept or even showered at all in months…

Along with his newfound realization about Mary and free time away from Sherlock, he actually acquired a real job. Well, kind of. Since Sherlock's barrage of cases, he's basically left John in the dust,that morning being one of many examples. John had been offered a job at the local hospital, but he had immediately declined. Yes, he loved the feeling of saving people, of helping people, but he couldn't help but to be reminded of his time in the war every time he even looked at a hospital. Not only that, but he loved the thrill of living on the edge of death that Sherlock had given him, He couldn't help but to cling to the hope that Sherlock would ask for his help, would go back to talking to John instead of that blasted skull, that he would be included again. He missed feeling important to Sherlock, he just wished that Sherlock needed him and-

The high pitched noise of the kettle whistling jolted John out of his thoughts as he lifted himself and prepared himself his morning tea. Sitting down in his chair, the one he had earned and the one where he sat next to his best friend in so many times before. Settling in, now with his hot cup of tea, his thoughts slowly drifted back.

What had caused that train of thought? It made him sound almost jealous, almost wanting that life back. He had finally gotten a 'get out of the crazy for free' card, and he was going to use it! Retracing his thoughts a bit, he had a sort of job. After declining the hospitals offer, a few days went by when he was called. A life or death surgery, no doctors on hand capable enough, no time to be sent to a more experienced doctor at another, better hospital. They called Doctor John Watson as a final and last resort to save this girl's life. So he did. Since then, he gets the occasional call when they need someone, and he can't say that's a bad thing. After how he's felt lately, it feels good to be able to do something again. So while he doesn't work there, he gets paid to help out once in awhile.

The recognition isn't bad either. All those times working with Sherlock, he never got any attention, it wasn't even noticed that it was his blog for god's sake! But now, he got the headline in newspapers. "War Doctor Saves Lives Once More". It wasn't bad to finally get a little credit where he could. Especially now. After everything that had happened, ever since he met Sherlock, it was nice to finally have some calm, some normalcy…

Oh, who was he kidding? He couldn't even convince himself that was true. He lived for the danger, the excitement, the near death, and he wanted it back. It look some soul searching after Mary died to ever want that. He didn't want that to happened to anyone else he loved. But he knew that he couldn't live like a normal person again, not after the years after he met Sherlock. He wanted to be needed again! To not be ignored!

But John supposed that wasn't in the cards. He would have to integrate himself back into the normal world because he didn't have a choice. Sherlock had moved past him, didn't want or need him anymore for whatever reason. He supposed he was never really much help to Sherlock to begin with. Well, that's just how it is then. Back to the calm, normal life.

That's when light, but noticeable footsteps were heard from outside the door, approaching, but nothing else. Until a light shuffling could be heard, causing John to focus his attention to the small yellow envelope being pushed under the door. Military instinct kicking in, John shot up and ripped open the door, only to find a deserted stairwell. Seeing no presence of anyone, John felt his heartbeat quicken as he slammed the door shut and bent down to retrieve the envelope. Carefully, he opened the package and took out the black disc inside. It wasn't the contents of the package, but the lettering on them that made his heart drop and his stomach turn.

"Miss me yet?"


	2. Chapter 2: The Game Is Back On

**I'm sorry they're so short, once I get into the story a bit more I'll have more content and they'll be longer!**

* * *

Sherlock was having a good day. He'd solved the days case, and it only took him one night to find the one piece that he was missing: the ring. The ring was a size nine! Her shoes were only a size six, so the ring obviously didn't belong to her, it was so obvious after that. The thrill of solving the murder drove him out of his flat at six that morning and straight to Scotland Yard to tell Inspector Lestrade. Walking home, he was high as a kite after that morning's events.

The high was a natural one of course, the thrill of the chase pumping the exhilaration through his veins, working better than any drug could simulate. Yes, it was a good day indeed. The case he was just given was not as exciting as he would hope, but it was work nonetheless. His recent need for work had not escaped the sociopath, he knew why. Well, mostly. He knew the intellectual challenge aspect, the need to find an adversary worthy of him, the need for the game. But there was something else. Something, the one thing that he understood so little. Emotions.

There was some unrecognizable feeling that contributed to his recent passion of small cases. But what, he didn't know, and it drove the detective mad.

Regardless, it was a good day. His mind quickly circled back to his given case. All the evidence, the suspects, the victim. His mind whirled around the information given to it, piecing each piece together to find the truth. He couldn't miss a single thing. That's when it came to him, he needed to check her handbag! Without turning, he marched straight on to where he knew the woman would be, he had to get her handbag.

"Call a taxi, I don't want to exhaust myself walking when it's already going to be tiresome enough trying to drag you up to speed." Keeping a steady pace, Sherlock continued on.

"We need to get to her flat before she leaves for her meeting at ten which gives us exactly", Sherlock checked his watched, never faltering in step, "twenty-three minutes to arrive. Given traffic, it will take approximately sixteen minutes to arrive if the taxi is called right this second. Given that, we must get up to the fourth floor which will give us just enough time to catch her on her way down, meeting her approximately on the second flight of stairs."

Scoffing to himself, he started up again. "Who am I kidding, we will wait in the lobby by the elevators. Are you getting any of this John, or do I need to repeat myself?" Keeping pace, he waited for his reply.

"John?"

Sherlock glanced behind him and paused in his step. Has John been absent this whole time?

* * *

John's frozen demeanor was quickly replaced with scurried panic. Taking one step towards the his laptop, he reached in his pocket and ripped out his mobile phone with every intention of texting Sherlock. Finding his contact, John suddenly paused. Sherlock had done nothing but ignore him for months. It may be rash to think this way as there may be a life on the line that John is unaware of, but John didn't want to be the loyal puppy to someone who hadn't even given him a minute of time in months.

Uncaring of this irrational and most likely dangerous decision, John returned his phone to his pocket, continuing towards his laptop and inserting the disc. Heart pounding, he watched the file load, suddenly contemplating if this was really such a great idea. Giving him no time to reflect, the file loaded and a video popped up, displaying what he feared.

Jim Moriarty, alive, looking straight at the camera with that smug little grin that said he held all answers you were looking for. For a split second, John felt scared. Scared that it would all happen again, scared Moriarty wasn't really dead, scared he would lose someone again. But then he remember that this was just a recording. Sherlock had watched Moriarty take his own life, so he couldn't be back again. Right?

The video started and John watched attentively, trying to soak in all the details as Sherlock would do as naturally as breathing. That's when he finally heard that dreadful voice, chilling him to the core. "Well," A shiver ran down John's spine the second the first word was spoken. Questions ran through his head faster than he could process, and he had to almost force himself to tune all these erratic thoughts out and listen to the dead man.

"Have you missed me yet? Missed our games? You can't lie to me, I know you have. We are the same after all, you need the thrill, you need someone who can really give you a challenge. Now you've lost that. I am dead Sherlock Holmes."

John released the breath he didn't know he was holding, a wave of relief to hear it from the man himself, a weird notion. Moriarty was dead. He said so himself. It must have been part of his grand Final Problem nonsense, he must have known he was to die. This was a good thing… but then why did-

"Or am I?"

Why did he receive this disc, and from who? His blood ran cold at the smile that appeared on the screen. A predator teasing his prey. A hungry wolf going for the kill. Could it be possible?

"The game has yet to end my dear, oh not yet. The climax has yet to be reached! The curtains have been drawn back, but they haven't closed yet. The show must go on! I want you to suffer Sherlock Holmes. I want you to reach your breaking point by my hands."

This can't be real. This is just a cruel, sick prank, right? Moriarty shot himself in the head! He's dead, this has to be just some recording to mess with them one last time, it has to. But who else could have delivered this disc?

Moriarty looked away for a minute, appearing to take a moment to think before addressing the camera once more. "You see, we stop looking for the monsters under our beds when we start to realise, the true monsters live inside us." Moriarty stared into the camera, almost as if he was delivering a message with only his eyes.

"The game isn't finished yet. You've only reached the halfway point I'm afraid. As long as I keep our game going, you belong to me Sherlock Holmes." Possessive, burning eyes stared back at John and even though they weren't even directed at him, it made him almost shrink back from the pure, raw emotion.

"So let me ask again, do you miss me yet?"

The screen went black, and the only thing John could see was his own reflection on the screen. Did he really look that scared? His eyes portrayed every emotion he felt, and it was then he realise why Sherlock had such ease reading him. It was written all over his face. Unable to really process what he had just seen, he reached out for the laptop and shut it very carefully, trying to figure the best thing to do now.

Somehow, someway, Moriarty was back. He was back and he was ready to finish the game he started with Sherlock. If so far was only the halfway point, John couldn't even begin to imagine what was to come. Reaching out a hand, John retrieved the disc from his laptop and stared down at it. With nothing else he think of doing, he did what he should have in the first place, Picking the phone out of his pocket, he pressed call on the already open contact.

One ring. John thought of everything he had just watched, only now was it really sinking in. The man who strapped him to a bomb, who made them run around in circles, who made Sherlock disappear for years, who was doing all of this to kill his boredom, and who Sherlock couldn't help but to admire. And John knew that he would hear the spark of excitement in his partner's voice when he told him of the game, that's just how Sherlock was, and John hated it.

Two rings. Innocent lives were being risked just so Sherlock could get his high off of solving a bloody case! And he would love it too, because that's who he was. He wouldn't care who got hurt, as long as he finished the game. Hell, it could be John, who had countlessly risked his life for Sherlock, to be the one who was killed by Moriarty and Sherlock still wouldn't care. Because that's who he was. A high functioning sociopath who got high off of working cases.

Three rings. Even so, no matter how much Sherlock didn't care about him, John would still be concerned for the bloody idiot. Why, John didn't know. He still couldn't tell you what had kept him around to this point. Why he stayed next to someone that gave him no respect, concern, opinion, kindness, and didn't seem to care for him at all was beyond him. He just… stayed. There was a reason, John knew there had to be, but he didn't know what that reason was, and he may never know. Should he really keep by Sherlock's side, or should he use this time to finally break away and start his own life again?

Four rings, and then a click. "This had better be good John, you know how I hate phone calls, I much prefer to te-"

"He's back." John had no desire to listen to Sherlock rant at the moment. His head was much too full of real problems to care about how Sherlock preferred to be contacted. As much as he was contemplating leaving, John knew this was no small matter, and those thoughts could at least be saved after he delivered the news to Sherlock.

"Moriarty is back, Sherlock."

* * *

The world froze around him, his mind completely forgetting the case he was working on, his attention only on the words just spoken by John. The taxi continued towards its destination to the woman apartment, but Sherlock was paying no mind to that. The only thing to Sherlock in that moment was those three words.

Moriarty is back.

Impossible, men do not simply come back to life, he had watched the man shoot himself in the head. There was no coming back from that, and Sherlock knew he was dead. The last time Moriarty was a problem was two months ago, and those were just recordings of him. The real problem was his sister. There was a zero percent chance that Moriarty was alive.

Yet, he couldn't stop that little bit of hope inside him that wanted him back. Wanted the game, the thrill. He had been so dreadfully bored ever since Moriarty was gone, and he wanted the high of the game back. That part of him that wished for trouble, wished for more crimes, it was strong. Sherlock knew what Moriarty had done, how many he killed and manipulated, he fully understood.

But he wanted the game to continue.

"Impossible John, stop talking nonsense." That's right, it was impossible. John had to be making a mistake. What evidence did he have to make this assumption? What could possibly make him think that Moriarty was back?

He heard a shaky sigh from the other end, and he could picture John runny a hand through his hair. "There was a disc left in the door, he left you a message. He said the game isn't over, he said he wasn't dead. Sherlock, I-I don't know, maybe he really isn't dead?"

Without another thought, Sherlock leaned forward and practically screamed at the cabbie to take him to 221b Baker Street instead. After a sharp turn, Sherlock returned to sitting upright and turned his attention to John once more.

"Don't go anywhere John, I'll be there in eight minutes." With that, he hung up and shoved his mobile phone in his pocket. He supposed that news warranted a call, a text just wouldn't do that justice. Smiling to himself, he allowed himself a moment of emotion.

The game was back on.


End file.
